Reflections before the Vietnam Memorial
October 21, 1992

SAYING GOODBYE


Saying goodbye . . . it's not always
easy.
Sometimes it is soon, sometimes later,
Much later.

I stand before 'The Wall' as a collage of the past flashes through my mind.
High school proms, a wedding cake,
A yellow Ford convertible.
His smile's shadow.
I hear snow crunching beneath skis on a clear, crisp winter day
As we slice through the powder,
Afterwards lying side by side staring into the fire's golden embers,
Dreaming of tomorrows that never come.

It took twenty-seven years to face this cold, stark piece of reality.
A black granite mass weaving the memories of 58,000 into the landscape. The sun is warm but I feel cold as I look into the eyes of the three bronzed sentries at the entrance.
Guns flung over their shoulders, posed for eternal combat.

The protective branches of orange-iced maples bend with the breeze, flutter out a sad melody.
I hear Taps in the distance and the camera trembles in my fingers
As I gaze beyond Lincoln and across the Potamac to Arlington.

Years of bottled-up grief overcomes me.
My eyes fill with tears as I flip through the salt-stained directory before me.
Looking - - - searching for my past.
I discover it is held within the boundaries of Panel 15E, line 114.
It is chiseled in stone forever.

Slowly, I begin to walk the zigzag path, forcing mysel to deal with its realities.
Each step I take feels like I'm wearing lead shoes.
My bag of paper memories becomes heavy in my hands as I weave through the throngs of retirees,
A final stop on their city tour.

I reach his name, the end space near the bottom.
Perfect for etching.
Slowly, I kneel, trying to hold back the tears,
But they drizzle down my face
Splatter onto the pavement.

An older couple pauses to watch
As I take a red silk rose from my bag,
The words of a favorite song,
A photo of a happy family sharing a Thanksgiving feast.
A picture of a young couple smiling before a tiered wedding cake.
The old folks clasp each other's hands more tightly,
Slowly walk away.

I feel an arm around my shoulder.
It is warm, comforting.
"Can I help?" says a soft voice.
A veteran dressed in the dull olive green of uniform bends beside me.
He holds a lead crayon and a white sheet of paper in his gnarled hand.

I smile through my tears, extend my hand.
He smiles back, squeezes my shoulder
All the time staring at my offering.
"I'm sorry," he says,
Turning his face so I cannot see
the tears in his eyes.
"How old was he?"
The words "nineteen" form in my mouth,
but will not come out.
They seem too tragic to utter.

I sit for a while, saying nothing.
I see his face once more,
Still etched in my memory in indelible ink,
Barely more than a boy.

A final image passes before me.
We are driving to the airport before he ships out.
His jaw stiffens as he reaches to tuck his arm around me.
I put my head on his shoulder.

Saying goodbye . . .
Years don't distance the pain
Yet they solidify my purpose.
It is still alive.
For I have other mountains to climb,
Other promises to keep.